The Nightshade Protocol
by N1ghthawk
Summary: Sequel to The Shadow Directive. Henley McBride, sign language interpreter, is beginning to settle into her new life as Clint Barton's interpreter when a new and dangerous mission challenges everything she thinks she knows about herself and her friends.
1. Chapter 1

Hello! This, as promised, is the follow-up story to The Shadow Directive! It's been too long of a wait, I know, but I've had massive technical difficulties to contend with as well as an insane college semester.

Only a few format changes from the previous writing, mainly since I discovered that FanFiction's bolded font is really difficult to distinguish from regular. Thus, signs will be glossed in parentheticals, since I will still have Henley's stream-of-conscious thought narratives in italics when necessary. Hoping to go back and change this in the original at some point, but haven't got to it yet. If there's a mention of Deaf culture or signing terms, it will once again be explained at the bottom of the page.

If you have read my previous story, some of this first chapter will probably seem like a rerun, but I wanted to make sure everyone would remember what happened last time since it has been a while since I last wrote! If you're new to this, I suggest reading the Shadow Directive first, since this makes more sense if you've read the original.

Disclaimers: All recognizable characters are owned by Marvel. I do not own any of them except my OC Henley. My version of Clint is based on both the movies and the recent Matt Fraction comics, so if you don't recognize something about the character, that could be why.

###

I'd be lying if I said I don't love my life. I mean, how many people get to be part of the most elite strike team on the planet?

Strike Team Delta. A task force that few people even know exists, highly classified missions, in and out before most people even know we're there. Three people, three skill sets, one job.

The most visible, or I guess it would be more correct to say the most active, member of the team is Agent Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow. Agent Romanoff is the epitome of what I always imagined as the female secret agent. She's drop-dead gorgeous- _literally_ , intelligent, seductive, agile, and cunning, the only survivor of the most intensive Russian agent training program ever used, she's calm under fire, incredibly deadly, and intensely secretive. Sometimes I think even Natasha doesn't know all her own secrets. She's also the most ambiguous team member, having been an assassin first for the Soviets, then as a freelancer, until she was recruited for S.H.I.E.L.D. in a risky move by none other than the second member of Delta, Agent Clinton Barton.

Clint, AKA Hawkeye, is the eyes in the sky of the team. He's far more likely to be perched on a rooftop with his favorite bow than mingling in a crowded society event like Natasha. Nonetheless, he's still the classic super spy. Strong, silent type, good with weapons more so than words, athletic, smart and smart-mouthed, and pretty damn good-looking _and that is an unbiased observation thank you very much for thinking otherwise-I know you are_. There's only one thing about him that people might consider a flaw-besides his perpetual disregard for basic safety protocol-and that's the fact that he's eighty percent deaf in both ears.

That little point is what brings us to me, the third and somewhat unusual member of Strike Team Delta, Probationary Agent Henley McBride. Nightshade.

The name makes me sound a lot more badass than I really am. I mean, I've got skills, but not the ones you typically think of for secret agents. I can't kill a man five ways with a toothpick like Nat, or scale a fifteen-foot hotel with only windowsills for handholds like Clint, but I'm still pretty proud of my abilities. Because what I do is the reason Clint and Natasha can continue to do their jobs. I'm the interpreter.

S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't want to lose their best marksman after Clint was deafened, but they also couldn't send him back into the field with just hearing aids and hope they worked through whatever conditions he was in. Which left them with a bit of a quandary.

They ended up pulling out a dusty protocol that they'd never actually used in practice, the Shadow Directive. A program designed to pair a disabled field agent with a civilian qualified to work with them so they could return to active duty. A 24/7 presence on mission, freeing up an agent's partner but still allowing for easy communication and the lowest possible profile.

That meant tracking down me. Self-described high risk situation ASL interpreter. I'd worked in freelance for multiple agencies and police departments, handling everything from potential suicides to hostage situations, wherever the person in question was Deaf.

I's promised myself I'd never take a contract job, never tie myself down to one place, or one person, but that all changed when I met Agent Phil Coulson, my recruiter. He'd managed to convince me, against all protest, that this was where I was needed. He cares about Clint like the good father Clint never had, and he was willing to do anything to make sure that someone could keep the archer doing what he was best at. And when I realized that, I was in.

There's no way it was easy. Clint, stubborn as always, didn't even want me around at first. I was just another reminder that he was 'broken', that he couldn't do his job. Which didn't make training, no walk in the park of itself, any easier to bear.

After a few field missions, though, Clint warmed up to me, and lately, it's been a little more than that. I'm not sure what to think yet, seeing as inter-office romance is off limits in S.H.I.E.L.D., but I'm the first of something unique and maybe we can work that in our favor. That is, if we survive our current mission first.

 **(Either you really want to say 'passion' fifty times or your hands are cold.)** Clint smirks sideways at me.

 **(I hate rain.)**

I'm currently crouching in the corner of an alley with Clint, staking out a target. This would be fine, if it weren't forty degrees and pouring rain. We're trying to keep a low profile, which in this case means we're not allowed to wear our insulated, waterproof, uniforms.

Nope. Instead, we're supposed to blend in with the ever-present homeless population of Denver, which means shabby, thin clothes that aren't doing a damn thing for the chill.

I blow on my fingers and try not to think about the way my hands are going stiff. If I end up really needing to sign, I may not be able to. Which is gonna be an issue since the rain and wet mean Clint's not wearing his aids. Even though they are waterproof, supposedly, he's not taking chances when he's got me. The fingerless gloves I have are soaked and making my hands even colder, so I peel them off.

My sweater and jeans are waterlogged too, heavy and clinging to my skin. I hate clingy wet clothes worse than just being wet, and I know I'm going to start shivering any minute.

Pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them only does so much, and when the first shiver hits, I cringe. Even seven months later, cold still triggers memories of being injured and lost in the Kirgawe mountains after the Quinjet crash.

I used to not mind the cold, and winter was actually my favorite season. I used to go for long walks and sit on park benches and watch the snow fall. But this winter I couldn't. At first I was still recovering and my body was too sore to do much walking. But then I would go out and trigger flashbacks so intense that I felt like I couldn't breathe again.

I spent most of the last few months in my apartment in Clint's building, which I moved into as soon as I was mobile again, reading, curling up in heavy sweaters, and drinking coffee.

Next to me, Clint shifts a little closer, and the unexpected warmth is comforting. The cold, fragmented thoughts of the mountain crash fade away, even though I'm still far from comfortable. I glance over at Clint and decide he's got it even worse than I do. I have a heavy wool sweater that is at least trapping warmth, and a scarf protecting my head and neck to some extent, but Clint's worn jean jacket is thin and soaked, and the dirty ball-cap he wears is no help.

I can feel him starting to shiver too, and I lean as close as I can and tuck an arm around him so we're sharing warmth.

In any other situation, this would probably be weird for people who have known each other less than a year, but in the world of espionage, something that might seem intimate is often just part of necessary field work. Like kissing your partner for show at some gala.

Of course, just when we finally figure out a way to sit so that the roof overhang of the building next to us blocks the worst of the storm, our target steps out of the house, climbs into a car that we've already managed to place a tracker on- _actually something I'm rather proud of since I managed to do it subtly while convincing the driver I was an incoherent and uncoordinated junkie-_ and drives off.

Clint stands up stiffly, then shivers when a gust of wind whips down the alley. Rain is dripping off his hair and clothes and he looks as miserable as I feel.

 **(Four hours of surveillance for three minutes of information. Great. Typical**.) I stand up too, trying to ignore the way my clothes, which had warmed a bit from my skin where they touched me, are now cold again. **(We have to walk all the way back to the hotel in this, too.)**

( **Then I guess we should get going**.) Clint digs his bow and quiver out from under a pile of trash bags and moldy cabbages. **(Let Coulson know we're moving out**.)

Clint shoulders his gear and we start walking while I dig my comm out of a small waterproof pouch in my pocket.

"Coulson, this is point team. We're pulling out, over." I'm so prepared to hear his familiar voice acknowledging that the empty static at the other end feels like a physical shock.

"Coulson, this is point. The target is on the move and we are pulling out, over." I repeat, thinking maybe the storm is screwing with the transmission. But I already know that is not the case. The static is wrong. It's not bad connection, it's no one on the other line. I nudge Clint's arm to get his attention

 **(Clint, I can't get through to Coulson. And it's not the storm.)**

( **It's probably nothing serious. Maybe yours isn't working right. Here, try mine.)** Clint digs his own comm out and I try again, with the same results.

 **(Clint, I do not like this. Coulson isn't responding. Do you think something might be wrong?)**

 **(I don't know. But just to be safe, let's hurry.)**

We pick up the pace, hurrying through the streets back to the hotel. My heart is pounding and not just from the speed. Coulson is nothing if not obsessive about staying in touch. For him to go off comm, it's got to be bad. The only thing I don't know is how bad.

###

Well, this is the beginning! Sorry to leave it on a cliffhanger, but I should have the next part up soon! Christmas break is good for my writing :). Hope everyone is staying healthy and having a great holiday season.

Comments and critiques welcome! I've so appreciated the feedback I got on my last stories, and people's suggestions really improved my writing! You guys are the best!

Until next time- N1ghthawk


	2. Chapter 2

Hello, I'm back! Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter! Hope you enjoy this! Taking a tip from a reviewer, I've decided to go back to plain bolded sign glossing as apparently the problem with differentiating it is on my screen.

Disclaimers: as before.

###

When Clint and I reach the hotel, we're both sweating, despite the cold, and on edge. Clint points out to me a pair of black SUVs parked a few blocks away as we approach.

 **Don't like the look of that.**

We approach the door nervously. I have no clue what to expect. We duck into a corner a block from the hotel to confer.

 **What do you think's going on?**

 **Nothing good. Standard Operating Procedure is to abandon the post and meet at the rendezvous. But Coulson would have radioed in with that order if he was able to. There's going to be trouble in there. But I can't just leave Coulson behind.**

 **I'm coming too.** I would really hope by this point that Clint and I are an inseperable team, but I can tell by the look on his face that he's about to order me to the rendezvous alone.

 **Stay behind me.** Clint clears the door, then the stairwell, half terrifying a young housekeeper with an armful of blankets. I'm just glad he's had the sense to use his sidearm; the bow would have given her a heart attack. She mutters something about "you people are wrecking business this evening" and bolts.

 **They're definitely watching the elevator. Otherwise she would have been using that.** Clint continues clearing the corners as we climb. My heart is in my throat and I wonder what to expect when we get to our floor. Why are we under threat from our own people?

 **Won't they be watching the stairs too?**

 **We're not taking the stairs all the way.**

And we don't. The rooms we're using for a base are a connected suite on the third floor. Clint and I exit rather unconventionally through a window halfway up the stairs between the second a third floors and climb window sills to reach our rooms. It's kind of weird how quickly doing things like this has become routine. I still, however, make it a point to avoid looking in any of the rooms we pass, although most of the blinds are down.

Our rooms are suspiciously dark. Clint and I hang from the window ledge with cold, numb fingers, looking over just enough to try to see inside. Thankfully this side of the building is sheltered from the rain.

The windows are completely blank and it's so dark I can't see anything. I glance at Clint and we don't even need signs to say what we're thinking. Clint grabs a grappling arrow from his quiver and pulls himself up enough to jam it in over the window sill into the wall. Then he nods to me. I grab onto him and we kick out together from the wall.

It seems to happen in slow motion and it's like something from a cut-rate spy flick. We hit the window together, boots first, and then crash through in a shower of glass and rain, rolling to our feet on the carpet. I'm pulling my knives already and Clint's got an arrow nocked.

And we're met by a blinding blast of light and at least ten guns pointed at us. I'm ready to go into fight mode when I see the uniforms behind the weapons. S.H.I.E.L.D.

"What the hell?' I gasp, and Clint seems as shocked as I am. That second of surprise is enough for us to be overwhelmed and our weapons taken. We're hauled to our feet with our arms behind our backs.

A tall, dark-haired agent in a suit steps forward. I vaguely recognize him from the base where I trained. "Agent Barton, Agent McBride, you're under arrest."

"Agent Jackson? What the hell is going on?" Clint shouts, and I'm not sure if that's because he can't hear himself or if it's because he's angry. Maybe a bit of both. "Where's Coulson?"

"Where you're about to be. You're all going to be taken in for questioning in regards to the murder of Admiral Karakoff."

"Who's that?" Clint spits.

"The man your partner killed. With your help."

"Nat…Agent Romanoff?" I'm not surprised, well, I mean, that she killed someone. But why this response?

"Agent Romanoff has been declared a traitor to S.H.I.E.L.D. and you're all to be called in for questioning. As of now, you are all under suspicion." Jackson motions to the men holding us and we're pushed to the door.

We stand in the elevator in silence, and I dart confused glances at the stern-faced agents guarding us. When we get to the cars, I see Coulson sitting in the rear seat of the first, and I automatically try to talk to him. But I'm pulled back sharply. And then something that panics me even more happens.

The men holding Clint pull him away to the next car and I'm being pushed alone to the third.

"Wait! No, I'm his interpreter. We have to stay together."

Agent Jackson looks at me cooly. "You're all going to be interrogated separately, to see which if any of you was in collusion with Romanoff. We don't want to give anyone any time more than they have already to get their stories to match." Without another word, my head is being pushed down and I'm seated in the back of the Suburban between two rigid agents.

We drive off into the mist of the night, and my heart is in my throat. This is a nightmare come to life. What happens to traitors? I don't even really want to think about it. I clench my hands in my lap and wish Clint was there with me. With him I wouldn't be as afraid. But I'm not ready to handle this alone.

I stare out the window into the dark, knowing as little about the passing landscape as I do about what awaits me when we arrive at base.

###

Well, this is getting interesting. I hope you enjoyed it! I had a more difficult time on this part because I could see it all happening in my head but somehow it was hard to get more than the bare minimum on paper. I might come back and make this more interesting later.

Comments or constructive criticism welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you so much for all the support! You guys are seriously the best; I am blown away by how many reviews, favorites and follows I have gotten! I'm ridiculously sorry that it has taken me so long to update. And yes, I'm going to do that unprofessional thing called making excuses: I have had an insanely heavy workload for college this semester and I also got my first real signa language interpreting assignment! Unfortunately, not for someplace as cool as S.H.I.E.L.D. but I'm super excited anyway! Well, without further ado, here's that chapter that should have been up months ago… :/

###

This is seriously the scariest thing I've ever had happen to me. And I've seen a lot of scary. But nothing compares to being handcuffed and leg chained to a cold steel chair in a sterile white room, waiting.

Waiting for the unknown. Since they left me here…I don't know, three hours ago? They took my watch…I've seen nothing. I'm thirsty, and hungry, and I've developed a nervous tremble in my left leg.

I can handle field ops that go bad. You have a limited number of things that can happen. You might get shot, you might slip off a roof and break your neck, you might drown. You might get taken and tortured. All bad, yes. But not as bad as the truly unknown.

That's why, when the door opens, I bite back a genuine scream. Yes, I'm not proud of it, but that's the truth of what happened. Agent Jackson enters the room, flanked by two gun-toting guards. Honestly, I'm a bit flattered that he brought hat much backup to deal with little old me. Does he really think that I've become as badass as Clint or Nat in less than a year?

Jackson waves to the men to stand outside the door, and my self-assessed impressiveness decreases somewhat.

Jackson sits down across from me, setting down a small ruggedized tablet on the table. He taps the screen and my dossier flicks up. But I see the mark on the cover- _Consider Potential Threat Until Further Notice-_ and I swallow hard.

"Agent McBride, I need you to understand that as of right now you have no rights. You are considered to be in league with a rogue operative who has committed an act with implications of terrorism and the potential to start a war with a very powerful country."

"I told you, I have no idea what is going on. I've never heard of this Karkaroff guy in my life."

"Karakoff. This isn't a time for jokes, McBride."

"Sorry." _Damn, I knew reading Harry Potter was gonna come back to bite me in the butt._

"I swear I haven't heard anything from Agent Romanoff in at least a week. Clint said she was on a dark op, that's all I know."

"You expect me to believe that you know nothing about the actions of your partner's closest associate? You three are the most tightly-knit strike team in S.H.I.E.L.D."

"That doesn't mean I'm told everything. I'm only the interpreter."

"Not according to your field assessments. You show skills of a Level Five operative after only months of field work."

"Clint is a good teacher. And I'm a fast learner."

"Our concern is that these skills were already ingrained in you when you became an agent."

Suddenly, it clicks. What's going on in his head. "Wait, you're saying you think I'm a mole? Seriously? My background was checked so extensively I swear they have my fifth-grade photos, the ones where I had my sweater on backward and looked like an idiot. And have you _seen_ the footage of me in training? Do you think I could fake that level of incompetence?" I accidentally sign incompetent as I say it, behind my back still in the cuffs.

Jackson rises. "I believe you."

"Why?"

"You just used your sign language when you were under extreme duress and anger. If you weren't a real interpreter who spent years with the language, that would not have happened. You can't fake that level of naturalness."

"This was a test?"

"One that you passed. Admirably. We've run your phone records and Barton's, and we know you're telling the truth about that as well. I'm sorry for that."

"I get it." And I do. In this business, you have to do things like that. I've done it to others. So there's no anger about having a skill turned back on me. It's just part of the life. And I'm a bit afraid of how passively I accept what this job does to you.

"Wait here." Jackson stands up. "I'll be back."

Right. Yeah. Wonderful. I really, really need the bathroom. And my nervous tremor is back. And Jackson forgot to uncuff me _. If they don't start giving me some leash soon, they may find that they have a rogue agent after all_.

Thankfully it's only about half an hour more before a new agent, a woman, comes in and unlocks me. "Come with me." I'm a bit concerned about what I'm being led to, but they said I was cleared so it's probably nothing terrible. I hope. Unless they lied.

The Latina woman with me is tight-lipped when I try to ask her about what is about to happen. I've seen her around a few times, but not well enough to know if this is her normal personality or if I bring out the worst in her. I can read off her ID that she's Agent Rebecca Stevens, but that's all I can read from her. The stiff way she carries herself makes her seem almost robotic.

"Agent McBride, we'd like your help."

"I don't see how I'd be much use to you seeing as I have had minimal contact with Romanoff."

"We'd like you to help us find her. If you're right, if she's not at fault, you're the only one she'll trust. And if not, you're the only ones who have a chance of catching her. Barton, you know how she thinks. You trained her. Help us find her, and maybe she won't need to be part of our kill on sight list."

I don't like this, but I have to admit they are right. No matter which way this goes, we are the best agents for the job. Clint saved Natasha once. Maybe we can do it again.

I follow Stevens down a painfully lit fluorescent hallway to a small conference room with frosted glass doors, cheap swivel chairs, a whiteboard table that someone used permanent marker to plan a field op in Lisbon on, and a TV monitor so old it looks like it should have rabbit ears.

Clint is sitting with Coulson at the far end of the table, lazily twirling one of the whiteboard pens through his fingers. He looks perfectly calm and relaxed, but having worked around him long enough I can tell he is seriously stressed.

He looks up before we even enter. My footsteps have a distinctive pattern, he told me once, he always knows when I'm coming. I can see the concern visibly melt away now that I'm walking next to Agent Stevens and not being shoved down the hall in handcuffs.

The calm doesn't last long, not when Clint finally processes who my companion is.

"Agent Stevens." Clint's voice is cold and clipped.

"Barton." Her voice has the same cool professionalism. "We've decided that you're our best bet of brining Romanoff In. You know her better than anyone else, and you're one of the few agents we can send in without serious concern for their survival."

"In other words, I'm the expendable crew member."

I thought she was calling Clint competent to stand in the same league as Nat, but now that I think about it, there were some incredibly sarcastic undertones to that comment. I am still not used to snark on the level of secret agent.

Agent Jackson enters just as I am sitting down with a file folder and a-oh my god, seriously-a VHS tape that he inserts into a player at the bottom of the TV monitor. I feel like there's been some kind of technology retrogression here.

While Jackson is setting up, I lean across the table to Clint and start to sign rapidly.

 **What's with her? Did you two sleep together or something?**

 **Hen! Why was that your first assumption?** Clint seems so genuinely insulted.

 **Then what the hell is wrong with her?**

 **We were recruited the same year and were always trying to one-up each other in training. She's still sore that I beat her and got the posting she wanted. She's S.H.I.E.L.D.'s second-best sniper.**

 **Let me guess, you're the first.**

"What are you two doing?" Stevens asks suddenly, rounding on us. "If you're going to have a conversation, at least be civil enough to let the rest of us in on it."

Clint glares at her. "You'd be perfectly capable of understanding if you'd bother to learn sign language. Next to Kurdish, Japanese, Arabic and Chinese, that should be a snap for you."

Agent Jackson glares at them both. "Will this be a problem, Agents?"

"No sir," Stevens says with an effort.

"Good, then let's proceed." Jackson hits the play button and the screen is filled with a statickly image that looks like it's been pulled from a 70s model security camera. It's footage of what appears to be an office, with a man sitting at a desk doing paperwork. Jackson begins to fast forward and I watch the figures like it's one of those psychotically speeded up videos that people make for fun. The desk man gets up and walks in and out several times, and other people enter and leave. The room gets progressively lighter, then darkaer again. Then Jackson hits play.

I watch the grainy, dark image of two men in the room. One is definitely the older man who was at the desk all day, the other is a younger, taller figure that I've seen go in and out several times on the psychedelic fast-forward. They appear to be engaged in a conversation, even though the time-stamp on the video says it's ten p.m.

The man behind the desk stands up and then immediately lurches forward, falling on his face on the desk. Dark spreads through his silvery hair, the only thing about him that's clearly visible in the weak moonlight. The second person falls to the ground as well, and I think he might be dead too, but a moment later I see him scramble awkwardly to his feet and rush to the door.

Jackson stops the tape and turns to us.

"Your briefings are in the dossiers on the table. I've got to go make arrangements for our asset. Agents Stevens and I will be accompanying you on this mission as a failsafe, I hope we can agree to be civil to each other?" When all of us nod, Clint incredibly grudgingly, Jackson walks out.

I open my file folder to see the still image of Karakoff bleeding out on his desk. _What the hell have we gotten outselves into?_

###

Well, sorry it has taken me so long, hope the update was worth the wait! I ought to be updating a bit more frequently now that I am getting used to my schedule, but it will be sporadic still. Rest assured though, I am not quitting this story!


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you to the guest reviewer who gave me the kick in the pants needed to restart this! I've been out for a while after a hard-hitting death in my family that took me a while to recover from emotionally. I was an angsty mess for a long time, but it's finally getting better. And writing is really helping me cope, so thanks for reminding me about this! I love this story and I'm really excited to finally get back on board and finish it!

###

I have at least three paper cuts by the time we're done going through the information packets. I hate paper cuts. Makes signing ridiculously hard.

Karakoff, a liason between the Russian military and British Intelligence, was killed in his London office last night at 22:30 Greenwich time. My initial reaction is to ask what he was doing in the office as late as he was, but before I can get up the guts to ask the still glaring and silently fuming Agent Stevens, I notice it's all explained farther down in the dossier. Karakoff was working on a genetic enhancement research limitation deal with the British.

That deal has been the talk of S.H.I.E.L.D. for weeks now. Russian scientists apparently worked out a method of replicating some of their Red Room work. I just hadn't heard enough to know Karakoff was the one behind the deal. No wonder they think Nat did this. If they believe she can still be controlled by Red Room intelligence, they'll assume she was hijacked and used to keep their program from being regulated or shut down altogether.

 _She's free and clear of their mind control though. Right? Right?_ What if she has a trigger implanted somewhere so deep S.H.I.E.L.D. never got it out? I came in here sure we were just going to have to go and prove Nat hadn't had anything to do with this. But now, as awful as the possibility is, I have to wonder if they might be right. _Nat's never said much about her past. I don't know what she's capable of._

 **Clint, this looks bad.**

 **I know, Hen.** Agent Bitch-face (I've decided I like that much better than her real name, and she'll never know the difference if I only call her that in ASL) is glaring at us for signing again, but she's not my biggest problem right now.

 **I hate to even say this, but do you think she could have possibly actually done this?**

I was really hoping he was going to go off on a silent angry rant about how could I possibly believe this bull crap, but he doesn't. I wanted him to tell me I was dead wrong, that he knows Nat would never. He just looks at me sadly. **I don't know.**

All I know about the Red Room is that Nat went in there a little girl and came out a cold-blooded killer. She doesn't tell stories from that time. She talks about later, when she was freelance, but the only time she mentions her life in Russia is when she's showing me a few moves that aren't in the S.H.I.E.L.D. field manual. All she ever says is "Don't use it unless you have to. That's a Red Room one."

It looks like our best bet to proving Nat's innocence is the intern boy. Nicholas Ryder is twenty-three years old, from some little nowhere town in Yorkshire England. His sister in law was Russian and got him the posting within a year of his graduation from Cambridge. He's smart, politically savvy, and good with people, or so it seems. Karakoff was notorious for burning out assistants within six months. Nicholas had lasted a whole year and three months. Karakoff seemed to like him and trust him. I wonder if there's more going on there than we know. This kid must have known something. He certainly knows something now. He was looking out the window in the direction the shot came from. He had to have seen the shooter.

He looks trustworthy, with a square, open face, grey eyes, a boyish smile, and chin length dirty blond hair in a loose ponytail. He seems like the kind of guy you'd let buy you a drink at a party or walk you home afterward. The kind without a dishonest bone in him, who just wants to do something good in the world. I know that kind. I used to be that person. I'm not sure if I still am. _I've lied and I've hurt people. I still want to save the world though._

"Do we have this Ryder in protective custody or something?" I ask. Bit…Stevens, I remind myself, because if I screw up and call her that to her face I have a feeling hell will rain down, shakes her head.

"He's staying at an MI 7 (I have to think for a minute to remember that that's the British equivalent of S.H.I.E.L.D.) safe house in London. We didn't think it was safe to try to keep him in any of our own places when Romanoff has access to all the safe house locations.

 _Shit, that's smart. She's right._ I try to look like I haven't just made a fool of myself.

"So what's the play, Stevens?" Clint gives her a small nod. I can't tell if he's actually letting her have the reins of this thing or just playing nice so she doesn't decide we're something to squash. She does seem to be the one who knows the most about this…and that infuriates me. I don't like being in the dark. It leads to trouble. Back when I was a freelancer, I took a few jobs where I wasn't told everything about the situation going in. The one I remember best was the suicide bomber when I wasn't informed that his only living relative, a teenage son, was killed by a gang that had its base in the same area he was bombing, because the police force there were trying to cover up their own failure to control gang violence. I tried to appeal to the man's will to live. He took out half a wing of an inner city school. I can't forget that. I failed a lot of kids and a lot of families because people didn't think I needed the whole story.

"The plan is simple. We go in and extract Ryder. With any luck, Romanoff has hacked communications and will know it. When we take him out, she'll come in to wipe off the last person who could conclusively tie her to the assassination. When she does, Barton, you take her out. And McBride, you…stay out of the way. Try not to get yourself killed."

"Wait, so the kid's your bait to bring Na…Romanoff in?" Clint looks as horrified as I feel. Stevens said all this so matter-of-factly it would have been easy to miss the fact that she's painting a target on Ryder's back. She doesn't care if he dies, she just wants Romanoff brought down.

"Casualties of war, Agent Barton."

"We're not at war, Agent Stevens." I can barely get the words past my throat. The kid's picture is still lying on top of my dossier. _I won't fail someone else this time. He's going home to his family. He's not going to be collateral damage in her obsessive need to be better than Strike Team Delta._ I wonder if she's so determined to bring Nat down to prove Clint made a bad call and that she should be the one S.H.I.E.L.D. trusts.

"If the Russians are allowed to continue this Red Room program, we will be." Stevens sweeps up the dossiers and stands. "Get what you need from the armory. We're on a jet to London in thirty minutes."

I wait until she's out the door before signing to Clint. **Well, I guess we're stuck with Agent Bitch-face.**

Clint stares at me and then laughs. It sounds good to hear that from him. I know he's even more worried about Nat than I am. I've known her a year. He's known her so much longer. She's more than a best friend, she's a partner. He trusted her. And if she did do this, it's going to shatter him.

###

I know it's a bit short, but next chapter we get into the action. And more face-off between Clint and his old rival. Should be interesting...


	5. Chapter 5

I was pretty sure there could be nothing worse in the world than the crappy hotel Clint and I once stayed in where the manager assured us that the rats under the bed "won't bother you as long as you throw some crackers down there" and that the bathroom light, a lamp clipped to the edge of the metal shower stall with an exposed bulb, definitely wouldn't electrocute us if we took a shower with it on.

I was wrong. Being trapped in a S.H.I.E.L.D. transport plane with Agent Bitch-face and her "carefully chosen strike team" is one thousand percent worse. Whenever Clint and I sign to each other she glares at us, but if we try to talk to her she's cold and seems annoyed. She doesn't even talk directly to me anymore. I feel like she's treating me like just another piece of gear, another thing they need to take along so Clint can get the job done. Like I'm nothing more interesting than his bow. I mean, don't get me wrong, the bow is awesome (and slightly scary after that one malfunction with the putty arrows Clint assures me was just a minor glitch), but hey, I'd like to have a conversation please. I've never felt more like an _asset._

It doesn't help that I can't stop thinking about what we're going to have to do. I know I'm not going to be the one taking any shots, but what if I'm the first one to see Nat… _yeah right, like that's gonna happen when you're partner's name is Hawkeye…_ or what I'll do if I have to give a kill order. Nat is my friend too. She helped me get through training, laughed and joked with me over cups of strong Russian tea that gave me a headache, and never, ever treated me like I was a lesser person because I didn't have the same skills she did. I've done a lot of things I never expected I was capable of. I've even killed. But somehow this is different. I've never had to turn on someone I trusted. The feeling twisting my gut is actually worse than the internal bleeding in Kirgawe. _How could Nat possibly have turned on us when it feels this horrible?_

I remember what Bobbi told me when we were on one mission. That I had to decide if I was an interpreter or an agent. I wonder if being an agent means shutting down this feeling and doing the job, no matter who gets hurt. Like Bitch-face is.

Loyalty has always been a funny thing to me. My family life didn't suck, but I got along a lot better with my friends in college than with my blood family, and ended up moving after college with one of my best friends, against my family's advice. It worked out, in the end, but it took a long time for the people I hurt to get over it. My loyalty has always been to the people who understand me and treat me like a valid human being who is capable and intelligent. I can't imagine having the same kind of loyalty to an organization, to a faceless code of conduct. Maybe that's why Bobbi said I'd never make a good agent if I didn't change. Because an agent needs to be loyal to the organization before its members. I care more about the people.

I wonder what kind of loyalty Nick Ryder has. _Does he know what he's signing on for?_ It's one thing if he's been told he's the bait, and agreed to help bring down the person who killed his boss because he wants to do something to make that right. It's something else entirely if all he's been told is that S.H.I.E.L.D. is coming in to pick him up and make sure he gets safely out of London. If he trusts us to protect him, when all we're doing is turning him into the perfect target. And I'm really afraid, judging by the way S.H.I.E.L.D. handles most of its issues, that he thinks we're coming to help.

When we step off the plane it's to stereotypical England weather. I really didn't think it was going to be this much like the movies. Fog swirls across the runway, and a misty rain turns my hair into a mass of frizz in minutes. I knew a shorter haircut was a terrible idea; I now look like Mufasa. I tried to copy Nat's chin-length bob, but what was cute on her looks like a slip with the scissors on me. She laughed so hard when she saw what I did… _Nat, please tell me this isn't what they say. Please tell me all that time we spent together wasn't an act._

There are three black Range Rovers waiting at the edge of the runway, and Clint, Bitch-face and I step into one. A short man with dark curly hair and an accent that is a somehow not completely bizarre combination of Scottish and Indian is already inside.

"Welcome to London, Agents. I'm Senior Agent Kirke and I'll be your point on this mission. The subject is being kept at our most secure facility, and per instructions from your Director I've sent you no information on its location. We'll be driving there now."

 **Fury asked them not to tell us where Ryder was so Nat couldn't get there ahead of us. MI 7 may be good, but even their people couldn't keep her out if she wanted to get past them.**

 **I got that. I'm not a complete idiot, Barton.**

 **I know, but you're new to the business.**

 **Shut it. I've watched all the Mission Impossible movies at least ten times, I know how spy stuff works.** It's honestly just a relief to be doing something as normal as pre-mission bickering with Clint. Then Bitch-face glares at us and I'm back in the reality that we're going out to kill one of my friends and maybe get someone else innocent dead along the way.

We drive for what feels like hours, and then the vehicles stop at what is definitely not what I pictured as a high-security safehouse. It's an apartment above a deli. And then I realize the deli, the laundromat and shoe shop flanking it, and the café across the street are all manned by people in ordinary clothes but with too many tells. Watching every movement on the street. Slicing the same piece of ham over and over but never putting the pile on the counter for the customer who has been on page 258 of his book for so long a fly has landed on it and he isn't brushing it away. A man drinking from a coffee cup that doesn't have any steam rising from it. Everyone on this block is an agent.

The thing is, if I can figure that out, so could Nat. She could have found this place, I'm positive. But obviously she hasn't made a move. Then we're all climbing out of the Range Rovers, and the extraction team (who are equipped far more heavily than any normal S.H.I.E.L.D. extraction group) walk into the building, led by Bitch-Face. Clint and I bring up the rear. Normally we'd be in a sniper position, but Nat would know that and be prepared. So the plan is to change things up. I don't like it; and not just because it was Bitch-face's plan and not ours. Clint isn't as safe on the ground. He's best in open space with distance. Close combat tactical is not his thing, especially with his hearing. He needs to be able to see a threat coming, and in a crowded, chaotic extraction situation, he's vulnerable. And me trying to explain things would only be a distraction.

When I first joined I would have felt safest here. Surrounded by a bunch of guys with massive weapons and full body armor. But since working with Clint, I've learned to value the safety that is two people who trust each other, both doing their absolute best to keep each other alive. We have each other's back out there, and this seriously feels like we're still not trusted. I wonder if the real reason behind Bitch-face's idea is to keep us where she has her eye on us. Or so she's got as good a chance of making a kill shot as Clint. If she really is that competitive, she may be putting him at a disadvantage just so she has a chance to show him up. The more I think about it, the more I'm sure that's the real reason. _She's not doing this for the legitimate reason that a day ago we were under suspicion for collusion in this thing. She just wants to best Clint._ And if her idiotic rivalry gets Clint hurt, I'm going to be seriously pissed.

We walk past the fake customers and up the stairs, to an apartment that is definitely not trying to hide the fact that it's a safe house. Up here there are uniformed guards at the door of the hall, the walls are covered in sensors and cameras, and there's a reinforced door leading to what I can only assume is the safe room. Bitch-face walks up to the guards at that one and presents her credentials. There's a whole weird thing that I assume is checking to see if she's not being body-doubled, because they swipe a scanner over her hands and face and then finally open the door.

There's two more guards inside, along with Ryder. It takes me a minute to recognize him, because instead of the wide smile, he's frowning, his eyes look haunted rather than hopeful, and his hair isn't pulled back anymore but falling down loose around his face. He looks frightened and lost, like the stray golden retriever puppy I found hanging around my dumpster in Portland.

 _And we're going to throw him to the wolves._ I flinch involuntarily, because once again he reminds me of me. The me Coulson and May picked up and drove off with to a place I wasn't sure wasn't going to be the death of me. I signed on for this debacle. Ryder has no choice. And then we're moving. Down the stairs, the extraction team in such tight formation I can't see Ryder's rumpled grey suit through them, out through the deli, onto the street. I'm thinking we might make it to the cars. And then there's a sharp cracking sound that I'm already ducking for, a yell, and that strange metallic odor I can sadly instantly tell is blood in the air. I'm on the ground, and so is Ryder, inside the circle of agents, bleeding out from a chest wound. The blood's already spreading across the pavement toward me. I don't know where Clint is, but I can hear Stevens yelling. When I look her way she's got one of the extraction team's rifles, and is aiming at something I can't see. I look down at the blood again. No one's helping Ryder. The whole extraction team is following Bitch-face's orders and movements. I push myself through their legs and get a hand on Ryder's chest. He's still breathing, eyes wide in panic and pain. I pull off my jacket and wad it up, pressing it to the wound and trying to ignore his breathless gasping and whimpering.

 _Shit._ I knew this was going to happen. I knew it was. But I am not going to let it end the way I was so afraid it would. Not if I have any say in it. I can't protect Nat. I can't do anything for Clint now. But I can keep Ryder alive. I hope.


	6. Chapter 6

So this story took an unexpected turn for me. It's gonna be a wild ride, guys, cause even I didn't see this coming...

###

It's two hours later, I'm sitting in a hospital hallway (they feel just the same in England as they do in America, with that creepy feeling that something bad is going to happen or has already), staring at the blood still on my shirt and slacks, and hoping I did enough. Nick Ryder is in surgery for a collapsed lung and a shattered rib, and he'd lost almost too much blood by the time the situation was under control and we could get a medevac. The doctors say it's my quick work that's the reason he didn't die before we got him to the hospital. _I promised the kid I wasn't gonna let him down, whether he knew it or not._ I'm glad this time I at least managed to get him as far as I could.

Clint sits down next to me. He took a bullet graze to the leg and appears to have strained a shoulder trying to shoot at such a high angle from the ground, but other than that he's still in fighting shape. And oddly enough, he looks relieved about something. He nudges my shoulder when the other agents turn back to the OR door. **That wasn't Nat.**

 **How do you know?**

 **Nat would have taken the head shot. It's more of a risk but it guarantees they don't survive. She's a good enough marksman to have done it at that range.**

I can see why despite the day we've had Clint looks like someone took the weight of the world off his shoulders. I feel the same. Natasha didn't do this; she didn't turn on us. Somewhere out there, she's on our side. Now we just have to convince everyone else. **Someone set her up?**

 **Whoever did is doing a damn good job. She's still out of communication. Even our secret back channels are giving me nothing.**

 **Does Bitch-face know you're trying to contact Nat?**

 **Nope. Like to keep it that way.**

I nod. A doctor steps out of the OR and pulls Stevens and Kirke aside. From the looks on their faces it's neither good nor bad news. Clint is staring, must be reading their lips.

"Ryder's touch and go. The bullet and bone fragments are out, but he's not breathing on his own, and he hasn't come to at all since they picked him up. But he's stabilizing now that they've gotten some more blood in him."

"He has to…"

Clint takes my hand. "Hen, you did everything you could. Hell, you helped the kid when no one else was thinking of that. He has a chance thanks to you. That has to be good enough."

"It doesn't feel good enough." I know Clint's right. It's the way everything has to be in this job. I learned fast that while it might feel like we're superheroes, there's no real heroes in this place. Just people who at the end of the day tried to do the right thing. It's been a hard lesson to accept.

A nurse stops in the hallway. She's a serious looking woman with long black hair and a heavy-looking face. There's something a little bit off about her, and I wonder if she's had plastic surgery, because of the stiffness in her expressions. I'm so fine-tuned to everything people's faces say now, after so many years of training my own to do as much talking as my hands, that when there's something unusual it stands out to me as much as if she had her lipstick smeared. "Agent Barton?" She has a pronounced Irish accent. Northern Irish, to be specific. Nat taught me the subtle variations. Northern Irish was one of her personal favorites. She used to say she could move to Belfast if things ever went really bad, and never be found. My Irish accent, on the other hand, is absolute crap. She and I laughed a lot about my terrible imitations of her during those early training days.

Clint cringes just a little. He's not a fan of hospitals, doctors, or anything medical. Just being in here has given him the jitters; I could feel his leg vibrating against mine. "Yes?"

"We're going to need you to come to a room. That wanker of an intern who worked on your leg didn't clean it properly."

"I'll take care of it later."

"I'm afraid I have to insist, Agent Barton. It's a liability issue. We can't simply let you walk out without treating this properly. You might decide to sue us if something goes wrong."

"Can I just sign a waiver saying I won't do that?"

"I'm sorry. That's not up to me. Procedural dictates." She turns, shoes clicking on the tiles. "Follow me please."

I don't like this. Something about it screams _wrong._ I don't know if it's her face, or her insistence, or just this place, but I feel like Clint's going to walk into a disaster.

"Wait, I need to come too."

She turns and glares at me. "What are you, his bimbo?"

"I'm his interpreter. He's deaf. With all that legal mumbo-jumbo you're throwing around, you oughta know that he's entitled to have me back there with him." Fat lot of good I'm gonna do if this really is a setup, but I can't just abandon Clint to his fate. We go out together if that's the case.

"I suppose." The nurse turns back, walking stiffly to the end of the corridor. She turns us down two more halls before reaching one that I swear looks like the pysch ward of this place. _This looks bad._

She opens the door of an unoccupied room. "Last bed toward the wall, please, Agent Barton." Clint sits, fingers twitching. They wouldn't let him bring any of his weapons inside the hospital, and I know he wishes he had his bow, or even his gun or a knife. I know I am.

 **If this goes bad, we're going out the window.** Clint is signing small, but by now I know his shorthand signs well. **Only three stories up.** Sad how that's reassuring now. Three stories sounds like nothing to me. I've scaled much higher walls.

The nurse slams the door shut. Then she does about the freakiest thing I've seen all day. She pulls her face off. And then, even freakier, Natasha Romanoff turns around to face us.

 **The hell are you doing here?** At least Clint seems to have caught up fast enough to ask her something. I'm still a little bit lost.

 **Hiding in plain sight. Sounds cliché but I say don't knock it if it works.** She shrugs. "Well, that was a spectacular disaster."

 **Shouldn't we stick to signing?** I don't particularly want us to get taken in for colluding with the enemy again. Especially since this time there's no talking our way out.

"Here, no one listens to all the crazy shit people are saying. We're just going to sound like another conspiracy theorist with a tinfoil hat and Doc Brown hair."

"That…is genius." She's so right. No one thinks to pay attention to people talking about government plots and cover-ups in a psych ward. We can pretty much say whatever we have to and no one will think twice.

"What the hell were you thinking trying to extract him? MI 7 should have handled it all."

"It wasn't our call. They put Agent Stevens on it, and that was her plan. Ryder was the collateral damage necessary to get to you."

"Why is Stevens running this op? She hasn't had a field assignment since she lost half her team in Guatemala." Nat sounds like the woman's name leaves a bad taste in her mouth. _I feel you, Nat._

"I think she must have convinced Fury she was necessary. If it was up to about half of S.H.I.E.L.D. Hen and I would be sitting in a cell right now for being accessories to Karakoff's murder. I think she must have told them she was capable of handling us in case their suspicions were right. And probably convinced them she was the only one capable of taking me out if I turned."

"Well, I'm sure Fury will be none too happy that they don't have me and their meal ticket is on life support."

"He'd be dead if it weren't for Hen. They owe her big. But knowing Stevens, she'll find a way to spin this where she's the hero."

Nat frowns. "We have to get him out of there. As long as S.H.I.E.L.D. is anywhere near him, he's in danger."

It suddenly makes sense. Up to now I didn't realize the full implication of Nat's innocence. But the hit happened just like it would have had she been the guilty party. Meaning someone else only knew where Ryder was because S.H.I.E.L.D. went to them. Karakoff's death didn't mean anyone inside was involved. Lots of people knew he was brokering the deal and had the means to kill him. But they couldn't find Ryder until S.H.I.E.L.D. led them to him. "Because there's a mole."

"Ten points for obvious, Hen." Clint rolls his eyes at me.

"Yeah, well, there's another obvious thing you're all missing. We can't move Ryder." I'm well aware that Nat or Clint would be up and fighting with the kind of injuries the kid sustained. I've seen that firsthand. _They're psycho._ But Ryder doesn't have years of training and a very underdeveloped sense of self-preservation, or a ridiculously high tolerance for pain.

"If he stays here there's a one-hundred percent chance he's going to be killed. If we move him, there's about a seventy-eight percent chance. I'll take those odds."

This is the part that's been bugging me since I read the dossier, only I couldn't put it in words until now. "What is so important about this kid? He swears he didn't see the shooter." I know that for a fact. I read the transcript of his interrogation with MI 7 front to back three times on the plane. Nothing else to do to ignore Bitch-face.

"He knew the real plan Karakoff was pushing."

"Everyone knows about that. It's all people talk about at S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Karakoff's deal wasn't to stall the program. It was to collaborate."

"That's not what I've heard."

"He was going to bring the Brits in on it in the hopes they'd enforce some regulations. He was smart enough to know if he went to the government and said shut this down all it would do is go back underground. He wanted to bring it to light and make it legitimate." Nat's political savvy is certainly a step a head of most people's. She knows that sometimes you have to do things you don't like, maybe even think are terribly wrong, to prevent something worse.

"How do you know all this?"

"I've been talking to Ryder. He was my inside contact."

"Oh hell." Clint shakes his head. "That's gonna look bad on the investigation, Nat. It'll look like the two of you collaborated and him going in that room was your signal. Even if he swears up, down, left and right that you're innocent, once they know you two were talking to each other before the shooting it's all over. He's the one thing we had to prove you didn't do it and this blew it."

"Well excuse me for not knowing someone was gonna take a pot shot at his boss."

"That still doesn't answer how we can move him. We can't wheel a hospital bed down the hall and steal an ambulance and just hope no one notices."

"We won't have to." Nat's got that smug, I-know-something-you-don't-know grin. "We're going to walk him out of here. Ryder was Karakoff's show-and-tell exhibit. He's enhanced." I think I might need to pick my jaw up off the floor.

###

I'm only slightly less shocked than Henley. This isn't where I was expecting the story to go. But now it's gone there and it looks like I'll just be holding on for the ride.


	7. Chapter 7

Here's the next installment, as promised! I was busy for a while getting some other ideas down but I promise I'm not going to forget about this story!

#

"Wait, what?"

Nat looks at me like I'm stupid. I guess that's warranted. "Karakoff's gone through assistants so fast because none of them were willing to go through with the testing. Ryder was the first to agree."

"What did they do to him?" Clint asks.

"Improved reflexes, vision, sped up healing. He's physically enhanced but he doesn't have much of the training. Just enough to make sure he stays under control and doesn't accidentally throw a chair across a room or something." Nat shrugs. "It's a very rough draft, but impressive given the circumstances." I bet I know the rest of what she's thinking. _Still nowhere as good as me._

"So you're saying he's going to be up to walking out of here now?" I just really don't see it. He didn't look like the kind of person to be able to casually rip a car door off its hinges. He seemed so…so normal. But I guess if he hadn't had any training, it makes sense. I'm beginning to rethink assuming he didn't sign up for this craziness.

"I hope so."

"Well, even if he can, that room is surrounded by guards. How are we gonna get him out of there?" Clint raises an eyebrow. "They've probably got someone at his bedside."

"I have a plan. Really, Clint, at this point, how can you not trust me?" She sounds so betrayed. It's good to hear them back at the old banter again. I guess nothing fazes Nat. If I was accused of murder and on the run from my own agency, I don't think I'd have the casual ability to joke around like that. Maybe it's something that comes with time.

"Because the last time I went with one of your plans I was in a hospital for a month and we both almost got kicked out of S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"I promise, this one is better." Nat glances up. She's looking at the air vent, and I know what she's thinking. _Oh no. I hate these kind of plans._

Sure enough, Five minutes later I'm standing on Clint's shoulders on one of the beds, with Nat grabbing my wrists to pull me into the air vent. I'm none too fond of the vents, not because I'm particularly claustrophobic, but the dust is a killer. And coughing is a certain giveaway when you're trying to be stealthy. I'm also prone to bashing my head on the low ceilings.

Nat leads the way unerringly through the vents, removing a locked grating between the normal wards and the secure area where Ryder is being kept. She reaches an opening and motions for us to stop. I can hear voices below us with strong British accents, and then Agent Bitch-face's grating tone.

"The hell he can just waltz off whenever he likes. This mission isn't over, and we're no closer to Romanoff. And that idiot thinks he can go spend some "quality time" ( _I can just see the air quotes in her voice_ ) with his little tagalong."

I must have tensed up, because Clint nudges me and signs, **Don't let her bother you. She's just letting off steam. She's just jealous.**

 **She ought to be.** I grin at him. Nat shakes her head.

 **Quit flirting, you idiots.**

 **How are we going to get in there? It looks like Bitch-face** ( _The look on Nat's face is so good. Wish I could get a picture of that; it would be epic blackmail material)_ **isn't planning on leaving anytime soon. And neither are the goons.**

 **I took care of it.** Nat glances at her watch. **Give me three minutes.** I really hope I can last that long without getting the black lung from all this dust. The real hazards of being an agent. Forget getting shot at or jumping across streets on the top of buildings. The way my life is going, I'll die of some weird British plague in the air vent dust.

About three minutes later, there's some kind of muffled thudding and people start shouting. **Nat, what was that?**

 **A bomb. Don't look at me like that, it was a very small one. In a truck. On the street.** I hear Bitch-face hurrying out in the hall, yelling for Clint. She tries to get him on comms, and he shrugs when we hear her yelling.

"Damnit, Barton, why are you deaf?"

 **I'm not that deaf.** Nat elbows us both and then kicks out the ceiling grate, dropping into the room. I can hear someone yell and the very distinctive sound of Nat dropping them to the floor. I jump down, almost breaking my ankle in the process. These floors are slick. Nat has both the guards on the ground and is already removing the IV from a very out of it and confused Ryder's arm.

"Wha…did you fall out of the ceiling?" He slurs. "Were you up there the whole time? Wow your hair is bright. Who are you?" Nat looks at me. She might be able to charm ballistic missile launch codes out of a drunk Czech rebel leader, but this is not her forte.

"The good guys," I say. I know it's cliché, but when I had my wisdom teeth out in college, and when I was on pain meds after Kirgawe, I couldn't understand much more than a five year old. He's lost a lot of blood and who knows what kind of drug cocktail they give you here in England.

He gestures expansively to the guys on the floor, almost rolling himself out of the bed. "Thought those were the good guys."

"They're not. They want to kill you." I mean, it's not that much of a stretch, they do plan on using him as bait to catch Nat, but I kind of feel guilty. Honestly though, he probably won't remember it later.

"Oh. I don't want to die. I got shot and that hurts. I didn't think it would hurt so much." He's getting louder and more animated as he becomes a little more alert, if no more coherent. Clint catches my attention.

 **Make him calm down or Nat's gonna knock him out and that won't do us any favors.**

"Shhh. If they hear you, they'll find us." I feel like I'm playing one of those games with kids to keep them quiet on a long car ride, or in a funeral home. Not that I've ever done that, but I've seen other parents using some game of 'don't attract attention' to give the kids a good reason to be quiet.

Apparently I'll be a terrible mom. Ryder doesn't calm down one bit. "You're not going to leave me here with them, are you?" I put a hand over his mouth and he jumps, staring at me accusingly.

"No. We're going to help you but you have to be quiet." Nat is very threateningly holding onto the IV stand. I'd prefer not to deal with Ryder both loopy and concussed. He nods, and I pull my hand back. "So just be quiet."

Clint and Nat both get an arm under one of Ryder's. "Can you walk?" Nat asks, and he shakes his head no, dramatically.

"They shot me."

"Yeah, well, you heal fast. Remember?" He looks at her like she said he had three heads.

"Just see," I mutter, losing patience as well. Someone's going to be here any minute.

He nods obediently and stands up as much on his own as he can. He's wincing and gritting his teeth, but he's moving. Unfortunately, at that pace, we won't make it out of the hospital by next weekend.

"Plan F," Nat mutters, grabbing his arm and swinging it over her shoulder again. "Hen, get the bed under the vent."

"No way. I already think I'm gonna get black lung from whatever awful dust mites live in there and you want to take him in with an open wound?" I have an idea. Not a great one, but an idea. "Can we try plan G?"

Ten minutes later the guards are tied up securely, one in the bed in Ryder's hospital gown (I made Clint deal with that; I have no desire to be mentally scarred for life) and the other hidden in the bathroom. Ryder is wearing one of the guard uniforms, the one that fit the least terribly, and leaning on Clint's shoulder. We step out into the hall and I yell, "Man down! The Black Widow is here! She got away from us and she's somewhere in the building!" (Nat is already hotwiring an ambulance for our getaway).

"We've got to get through or this guy's gonna bleed out!" Clint shouts, elbowing his way through the mass of doctors, nurses, and a few MI7 guards rushing in. We're down the hall before anyone discovers we were lying.

Nat, true to her word, is ready in the street below us. I smash a foot through the glass and Clint knocks the rest of it free. Ryder glances down at the roof of the vehicle two stories below us, and his face turns even whiter, which I didn't think was possible.

"We have to jump?"

"Nope." I shove him forward. "You don't. You just have to fall." He lands very ungracefully, but at least we didn't have to argue. My landing from a planned jump wasn't much better, and then Clint has to go and show me up by flawlessly sticking a superhero pose even as Nat's already starting to drive off. Behind us, I can hear someone yelling, and it sounds like a shot ricochet, but we're free. And now, more than likely, all very, very wanted. Yup, this is exactly how I thought today was gonna go.


	8. Chapter 8

Well, the demands of higher education are upon me again, and I'm in the middle of two literature classes and a writing class that needs 50,000 words by the end of the semester. But I did find enough time to squeeze in this update!

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I thought it was going to be an improvement when Ryder's medication wore off. It isn't. When it becomes apparent that we're either going to have to listen to him jabber like a six-year-old or struggle for every breath and whimper whenever he moves, Nat rummages through a bag beside her and hands me a vial and a syringe, all with one hand on the wheel of the van which is the third vehicle we've stolen in a half-hour period and never taking her eyes off the road. "Try and give him enough to actually knock him out this time," she mutters.

When I try to get the needle into his arm, though, Ryder flinches away from me. "Please, don't give me anything else."

"I have to. It's just to stop the pain."

"I don't want anything else. I'm done." He's barely even looking at me, and I wonder if he's aware of where he is. Something tells me he's not. "Every time you people give me something else, it feels like I'm going to die." He must be remembering the Red Room-esque program. "I couldn't move and it felt like they set me on fire. And they did it over and over until I started changing." I thought Nat said he consented to it on his own, but this doesn't sound like willing participation. Maybe he tried to back out when he realized what he'd agreed to.

"This isn't what they were giving you." I feel like throwing up, and it isn't just the awkwardness of the van motion when I'm in the back and can't see out any windows. _They convinced a naïve, idealistic kid that he could be part of a way to change things. And then they used him for their own ends and did whatever they thought they had to._ The sheer terror and pain in his eyes is horrifying.

"I told you, I'm through!" Before I fully realize what he's doing, he wrenches the needle out of my hand and shatters it, then grabs my arm. I'm fully convinced he could break my arm as easily as that needle. I can see Clint has a stun arrow nocked, and I shake my head. I can handle this. It wouldn't be the first time I've gotten a broken bone taking care of someone who's not entirely lucid.

"Ryder…" His face goes stony at the use of his name, and I rack my brain for something more reassuring. _What was the name on his file?_ Nicholas…Nick?

"Nick? It's okay, I won't give you anything if you don't want it." His grip relaxes.

"At least you listen. They wouldn't stop before." A horrible sneaking suspicion makes its way through my stomach. Ryder…Nick…basically was tortured by the people he'd trusted. And yet I saw him fully in control of himself, or so it seemed, on that tape. The two things don't add up. He wanted out, and yet he seemed to be loyally working for Karakoff.

 _Did he want revenge? Was he playing them all, pretending to be loyal, while planning to destroy them for what they did to him?_ I haven't known him long enough to know if he's the type, but it certainly isn't an unreasonable idea. What if he set up Karakoff, and his coming into the room was the signal to shoot? What if he did all this to expose the lies surrounding the program and show people the reality? I know what it is to be the naïve, optimistic person who joins something because they want to make a difference, to be a hero, and then discover that under all the shine is a lot of lies and blood and questionable morals. And I'm not the one who was basically turned into a weapon against my will.

Nat's knuckles on the steering wheel are white. I know she heard everything, and I can't tell if she's worried that we're just assisting a killer, or if she's remembering her own terrible past. Maybe both. Although at this point I doubt Nat would care if Nick _had_ set Karakoff's murder up. I'm not sure if _I_ care. Unless, of course, he decides we're part of the problem.

I'm also not sure if they decided he was too valuable to lose. I know Phil keeps trying to convince S.H.I.E.L.D. to back off on their aggressive microchipping policy for agents, arguing that if we're undercover and a scan detects one we're blown. I know it's more out of his concern that we're being treated like no more than government property. From the sound of what Nick is saying, I doubt the people working on him had any such scruples. "I need to know what they did, okay?"

"I can't tell you anything." He rests his head in his hands, and sitting like that he looks like a puppy someone has kicked to the curb. I want to believe he's not capable of planning a cold-blooded murder, even of someone who was a monster to him. But I of all people know looks don't mean a thing when it comes to what a person might do.

"Nick, I promise I'm not one of them."

"I can't remember. I only see them when you give me that stuff." He points to the vial.

 _So that explains a lot. Selective memory erasure._ _The drugs must break down the mental blocks._ As awful as it sounds, that makes me feel better. Ryder's no killer. He just legitimately didn't know what Karakoff did to him, so he kept working for the man none the wiser. Now I want to shoot the Russian ambassador myself.

Nat brakes, and I stumble and barely catch myself before falling into the front seat. "We're here." She's parked us outside a Chinese carry-out restaurant with a sagging, torn red awning and fading Chinese characters painted on the window. We're in a pretty decrepit part of town, but I'm guessing that means a lot less potential security cameras. She gets out of the van and rings the doorbell in an odd cadence. After a few minutes a middle-aged man comes out of the shop, wiping his hands on an apron, and they exchange a few words in a dialect I haven't picked up yet. She walks back to the van and bangs on the side.

"George is fine with you coming." I'm a little surprised that his name is George, and also that once we're off the streets he has perfect, if slightly accented, English.

"Natasha says you are all in danger. And that the boy is being hunted for being like her. Is that true?" Clint nods. "I knew her, when she was still the Red Room's pawn. She hid here when she was injured trying to kill a member of Parliament. I tried to convince her she was better than that life, and when she came to me for help again, I could not refuse her."

"I'm sorry I just dove back into your life about as wildly as the last time, but it was sort of unavoidable. And now I'm saddling you with more of us."

"This is where you've been staying?" I hadn't really thought about where Nat was in London. She sort of always seems like a ghost to me, like something that doesn't have human needs like shelter or food or sleep.

"There will be enough room for us all, but it may be an uncomfortable squeeze," Nat says, pulling on a fringed rope that brings a ladder down from the ceiling. I clamber up and then help Clint with Nick, who is now basically dead weight, exhausted from the day's events and nearly asleep on his feet.

The room is small and crammed with boxes, but it's clean and quiet and best of all, secluded. There are no windows, only a bare lamp, and the walls are lined with boxes that will muffle any noise. It's a perfect place to hide.

I check Nick's wound as soon as he's laid down semi-comfortably on some old blankets. It's too soon to tell if there's any serious infection, but the wound seems much smaller and less raw than it did when I was trying to keep him from bleeding out in the street. At least the people who used him as a lab rat did something right.

Nat closes the door, and we sit there in silence. I watch Ryder sleeping fitfully, more than once shoving invisible hands away or making a small sound of pain or protest. _He's surrounded by monsters. People who want to use him, and people who want to kill him._ We're the only ones who honestly want to help him. And it makes me wonder what the real motives behind our rescue are. _The people who modified him will want him back. Are we going to hand him over to them at the end of all this?_ I'd rather remain a fugitive the rest of my life than give him back to those people. _Did S.H.I.E.L.D. know about all of this? Are we in the dark about something that's going to happen?_ I wonder if Bitch-face knows something we don't. She's the one with the authority now, the one pulling the strings. What is she planning? What does S.H.I.E.L.D. have hidden from us? And are we all going to be collateral damage?


	9. Chapter 9

It doesn't take long for Clint to get fidgety. He's comfortable with tight spaces (sometimes I really hate that when we're wedged into vents for hours for surveillance), but only when there's a purpose to it. Sitting here waiting is driving him crazy.

 **We should be doing something.**

 **We can't. I'm sure Bitch-face is going to be looking for us.**

Ryder rolls over, collides with a large carton of rice, and wakes up with a startled "No!" Nat goes to slap a hand on his mouth but he seems to remember just in time that he needs to be quiet. He sits up slowly, pulling his knees to his chest and watching all of us like an abused puppy in a shelter.

"Nick? Are you okay?" I whisper, sliding over to sit next to him. **Do you know sign language?** I want to talk to him but I don't want to give our position away.

 **Only British.** He's fingerspelling everything painstakingly. I know just enough about British Sign Language to know it is really, really different from ASL. Trying to have a conversation across the language barrier would probably only result in Ryder getting more frustrated than he is now.

"What's wrong?"

He shakes his head slowly, like he's trying to get something out of his head. "I can't stop remembering. I can't get out of that room." He's shaking, breathing fast and shallow. He's going to go into a panic attack if I don't get him to calm down. Fortunately I made my living talking people off ledges; real and emotional.

"Nick, I promise, you're not going to have to go back there. Ever." It might be a naïve thing to say, because there's no telling what S.H.I.E.L.D. will do to him if they get their hands on him, but I doubt if Coulson has anything to say about it that he'll get thrown into more testing. He protected Nat, after all. "We're going to make certain of it."

"People like you lie." I can understand that he won't trust government people. But we did just save his life.

"Nick, we're all like you. We shouldn't be trusted, or we shouldn't even be here. But our agency trusts us. Clint used to do a carnival trick show and he was an assassin for a while. Nat's genetically modified like you. And I'm a sign language interpreter. I'm not even an agent. But they trust me. And they'll trust you too. It won't be like Karakoff. You won't get forced into anything you don't want to do. I'm sure if you want to disappear, have a new life somewhere, they can arrange it."

He looks at me hopelessly. "No, they'll lock me in a cage somewhere. I'm too dangerous to let go. You know that." _He's probably right._ I want to believe that S.H.I.E.L.D. would let him leave if he wanted to, but the reality is I'm lying to myself. I wonder if Nat wanted out when she first came.

"I'm not sure S.H.I.E.L.D. trusts anyone," Nat says quietly. "But they will do whatever they can to make staying your best option. Sometimes it turns out it's the most normal life you can hope for."

"I don't want this to be normal. I want to go back to being someone's brother and a university student and a future lawyer. Not someone's lab rat or human weapon."

"I don't know if they can find a way to reverse this, but S.H.I.E.L.D.'s science division is pretty much the best in the world. If you really want this gone, they might be able to do it." I always used to dream about suddenly waking up with superpowers. I desperately wanted to be faster, stronger, better. Even after I came to S.H.I.E.L.D. and learned to do things I thought were only possible with CG in action movies, I still was jealous of Nat. And Clint. I wanted to be so strong and agile I could flip a guy on his back for slapping my ass before he knew what hit him (Nat's relationship with the FBI was a little strained for a few months after that joint operation), or have such good vision I could track a single person a mile away in a crowded city. I never thought about what the consequences of that could be. I never thought about what it would be like to be forced to live a life that wasn't normal.

"Nick, I promise, we'll do everything we can. Our handler is one of the best. He's looked out for Nat, made sure no one ever tried to use her for her skills and forget she was a person." She nods.

"Shh." Nat presses her cheek to the floor. "Someone's talking to George."

Ryder cringes. "Please, promise me if they come to take me, you'll just shoot me." _Oh God, what kind of hell has he been through that the best we can do for him is keep him from going back there by killing him?_ He's just a kid. He didn't deserve this.

I can think of another kid who didn't deserve the horrific life he had. Clint's turned out…okay? I mean he was an assassin for a couple years. Still is, even though that's something I kind of tend to skim over, because that means I'm an accomplice and _that_ is just wrong on too many levels for me to even try to think about. I never expected a job as an ASL interpreter to somehow end with me sitting with an assassin on rooftops, relaying an order to take someone down.

But spiraling into the same dilemma that's kept me up for too many nights isn't going to help Ryder. He's shaking and starting to hyperventilate. I'd like nothing more than to give him another dose of that tranquilizer Nat brought, but if I do he'll probably go into a full panic on me if he's in this state already. And if we end up having to make a run for it, we don't want to be dragging an unconscious person along. Seeing as we can't leave him behind because he's the whole mission.

Instead, I turn to a tactic I've used to get people to stay calm while we work on talking them down. "Ok, listen, Nick, I'm going to ask you to count backward from ten for me in your head. Take a breath every number, okay?"

He shakes his head. "I can't."

"Just go as far as you can, okay?"

"Seven."

"Ok. Now go for six this time."

By the time he's successfully made it to two, the voices are out of range and Nat is sitting up slowly. "False alarm. A customer wanting to know if he had any octopus. I'm not entirely sure what happened because halfway through they switched into a dialect I haven't mastered yet." I shake my head at the _yet_. Only Nat would talk that way about her massive vocabulary of foreign languages.

"At some point, we'll have to move."

"Yes. George is waiting for the streets to clear. Hopefully sometime around 3 am he'll give us the go ahead. He's got a disguise I left here, and I'm going to be running his van out of town, like I'm making a supply run. Once we're outside London, we'll be safer. But we have a few hours left to wait." I lean back against the supply crates, and Clint sits next to me, fingers twisting into mine. There's nothing to do but sit in silence.


End file.
